


Art is Dead

by FireFoxCanFireFuckOff



Category: IT - Stephen King
Genre: Angst, Comedy, Eddie Lives, Fix-It of Sorts, M/M, Still Kind Of Sad, bo burnham - Freeform, he wrote it in this universe, let richie feel feelings, more of a character study, richie returns to comedy, richie sings Art is Dead by Bo Burnham
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-16
Updated: 2020-02-16
Packaged: 2021-02-27 19:34:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,845
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22751056
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FireFoxCanFireFuckOff/pseuds/FireFoxCanFireFuckOff
Summary: Richie had many feelings about the pop and comedy industry, as he grew up the more and more negative they became. When he finally returns with his stand up special Working Bitch, he talks about what people deserve.orRichie, after everything, makes some decisions about life and the world around him and finally does what he wants with his carreer. Make shitty musical comedy songs. This is based on Bo Burnham's 'Art Is Dead'.
Relationships: Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier
Kudos: 24





	Art is Dead

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! thought it isn't necessary it would probably help to listen to the song first so you know what it sounds like, https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Eo9pU1q8sy8  
> Bo is a wonderful creator and a big inspiration for me, a lot of what he sings sounds like Richie, so I did what I did. A lot of what Richie says along with the whole song are quotes. Credit to Bo.

It had been a long day. The stress of his first performance on tour after his breakdown had Richie rolling in bed with anxiety. Last night, as the bright red neon of this alarm clock lit up the room, Richie laid in bed and thought about the last three years. Everything had changed. He had remembered everything from his life, re-lived trauma, killed a clown, had Eddie almost die in his arms, come out, redeveloped anxiety (or realized he had it), and created his first show without the help of a writer. The accumulation of three years of work was on the line with this tour. It was a way for him to actually become a person again. One of the last steps in becoming better. He knew that this show wasn’t going to fix anything, and it might actually stress him out more, but it was going to be something he hadn’t been in a long time. Real. And that was a hard pill to swallow. 

As many dick jokes that were inserted into his comedy act he had an equal amount of actual shit to say. Richie had decided to go a completely different route to “prove himself” (to his reflection or to his audience he didn’t know). So there were songs. Dorky, weird, songs he would have gotten beat up for in school. But they were really fucking witty, and they made Eddie snort, so that was the only judgement he needed.

He wanted to say what he needed to say in this special. He wanted to be honest about his opinions about the world, about his job, about the people who looked at him on the subway like he was a bug to be stepped on. As much as that sounds like something a cringe fifteen year old would write in fan-fiction. He didn’t want to worry about critics watching him with prying eyes. Yet he needed that approval. Always had. And he hated that. 

He knew it was good though. The lights and sounds, every moment/word was planned meticulously. He had rewritten jokes ten times over just to make himself feel better. And he was incredibly proud of it. 

  
  
  
  
  
  


People had been sitting too close to Eddie for too long. He had felt the arm hairs of the two people next to him on his skin for the last hour and he was very uncomfortable. He could hear their fucking breath every time Richie stopped talking during the show. But there was a smile on Eddie’s face, because there was that gangley asshole, standing on stage making people laugh, arms flailing helplessly. There were ten minutes left in the show and he could tell Richie was tired. Every time he made eye contact with Eddie there was a mini conversation that no one else could hear.

**_Hello._ **

_Why hello fancy seeing you here._

**_How are you doing?_ **

_How_ **_am_ ** _I doing Eds?_

**_Wonderfully._ **

_That’s good to hear isn’t it._

  
  
  


And that’s how it went every few minutes. 

The show had been… Very Richie. It was silly and strange but every now and then he would switch. Immediately. And you would be sitting there, laughter dying in your throat as he made a point that was too serious to be funny. And then he bounced back, and you would be laughing again. It was sarcastic and narcissistic but genuine. It was in and of itself counterproductive. 

Eddie was very excited for the ending bit, though he wouldn’t admit it. It was his favorite memory he had of as a kid. 

The losers club were fifteen and high off their asses. They had been walking to get candy from Keene’s. As they reached a crosswalk, three blocks from their destination, Mike had pulled a god damn screwdriver out of his underwear, removed the stop sign from the post, and stuck on a sticky note that had the world GO written on it. 

It was funnier when Richie told it.

  
  


Richie took a sip from his water and set it back on the stool. Ironic there was a stool at a stand up comedy performance. He strides to center stage, reset and ready for the last leg. He looked at the ground for a split second and then to the audience. And he asked a very simple question.

“Does anyone here watch celebrity lip sync battle?” 

_‘That’s not the first words of this story’_ Eddie thought. Despite his internal question the crowd let out a roar. 

“It’s the end of culture everybody. Culture is over! And this is supposed to be the bread and butter of american television? It’s always the same.” Richie shifts his weight to one side of his body in a way that says ‘hey what do I do with my hands? Someone please tell me’. 

The lighting morphed slowly into a light blue casting on the back of his head. Sometimes, Eddie thought that Richie looked like a different person on stage. He definitely did now. He normally took on a stance that radiates confidence on stage, but this was a look he had only seen a few times. Worry, and care, and, something else entirely that Eddie couldn't recognize. But he wasn’t looking at Eddie. He was looking at everyone. The crowd. The people. 

“Fuck these people. They mouth words on stage that we’ve all heard too many times to count. It’s the bare minimum. It’s nothing. But you watch it. You cheer when I mention it’s name.” The audience has gone silent at this point. Staring at Richie with big eyes, waiting on what he will say next. Eddie doesn't blame them. He’s in the same boat.

“How **dare** they think that them fucking around is worthy of your attention. Your attention is a valuable thing. I worked for three years to get it for an hour. And I barely got there.” 

Silence. Richie crosses the stage to the keyboard and sits down. He looks at the keys. He looks at the microphone and the lights, the stage and the Lincoln seats. And his eyes settle in front of him. 

“I wanted to thank you. I fucked up. I’ve always been a fuck up, I made you laugh with jokes I didn’t write and in that way i betrayed you. I’m no better than them. No better than the people who lip sync terrible songs to feel like they still have a fragment of relevance in this world. But you’re here. And you’re giving a 6’3 asshole with a talent for sucking dick a chance to prove himself. I don’t deserve that anymore then that bitch Justin Beiber does. So thank you.

“This is something different, something honest. An apology not sarcasm.”

And they lock eyes.

**_Hello_ **

_Why hello fancy seeing you here._

**_How are you doing?_ **

_How am I doing Eds?_

**_I don’t know._ **

_Neither do I._

  
  


_A_ nd the piano starts. It’s an uptempo beat, but still quiet. Eddie wonders how he’s never heard Richie practicing it before.

“Art is dead. Art is dead. Art is dead. Art is dead. 

Entertainers like to seem complicated

But we're not complicated

I can explain it pretty easily

Have you ever been to a birthday party for children,

And one of the children won’t stop screaming

Cause he's just a little

Attention attracter 

When he grows up to be a comic or actor,” 

Eddie is hit with memories of Richie talking nonstop, getting yelled at by adults, eye rolls and detention slips from teachers, black eyes from bowers. And the occasional bruise from Eddie himself. He’s sure Richie is thinking the same thing. 

“He’ll be rewarded for never maturing

For never understanding or learning

That everyday can't be about him

There's other people you selfish asshole!” Richie’s face morphed into one of anger. And Eddie's heart breaks, because he knows that Richie is yelling at himself. There are still a few quiet laughs from the audience.

“I must be psychotic

I must be demented to think that i'm worthy of all this attention

Of all of this money

You worked really hard for 

I slept in late 

When you worked at the drugstore.

My drugs attention 

I am an addict

But i get payed to indulge in my habit

It's all an illusion

I'm wearing makeup

I'm wearing 

Makeup

Makeup

Makeup

Makeuuuuup” 

His eyes are screwed tight as he sings into the mic and pours out every thought he has had for the last 40 years of his life to random strangers in a theater. His eyes open, and there's a melancholy sadness in them.

“Art is dead

So people think you’re funny

How do we get those peoples money?

Said art is dead 

Were rolling in dough

While Carlin rolls in his grave 

His grave, his graaaaave.”

Carlin was Richie’s favorite comedian growing up. He would put on tapes of him during sleepovers and say every line from memory along with him. He would quote him when he had nothing to say. Eddie remembers that Richie told him that he cried when he found out Carlin died. 

“This show has got a budget

This show has got a budget

And all the poor people way more deserving of the money

Won't budge it.

Cause i wanted my name in lights

When i could have fed a family of four for 

Forty fucking fortnights

Forty fucking fortnights!!!”

The disgust on the Richie's face was so clear and vivid that Eddie had no idea how to react. Richie, in all honesty, was running on full adrenaline that he didn't know he had or needed.

“I am an artist

Please god, forgive me

I am an artist

Please don’t revere me

I am an artist

Please don't respect me

I am an artist

Feel free to correct me

A self centered artist

Self obsessed artist

I am an artist

I am an artist

But i'm just a kid

I'm just a kid

Kid 

  
  


And maybe i’ll grow out of it”  
  


The last note struck out against the theater, so quiet it seemed empty. And there was relief on his face. Not like someone who had saved the world, but like a person that had finally realized something very important. Seconds ticked by and people began to clap. And finally Richie looked up. He stood, slowly, almost hesitant, like he didn’t know if he could. He walked to center stage and grabbed his water bottle. From where Eddie was sitting he could not see Richie’s face clearly, but he could see the audience's face. The lady next to him was clapping, but her eyes were far off. She looked like she was thinking about something very important. A different person would have asked, Eddie did not. But he understood that feeling. 

Richie started to walk off stage, he passed the mic paused and went back. His mouth was a millimeter away from it, he once again locked eyes with Eddie and said,

“Goodnight, I hope you're happy.”

The lights on stage turned off. And the audience fell quiet once more.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading. Honestly though please check out bo burnhams stuff if you haven't, hes hilarious and such a wonderful person.


End file.
